Diary of a Short-Sighted Adolescent

by Mircea Eliade

  I carefully cleared the table of anything that might distract me: a book by August Comte, volume III of The History of Roman Literature by Iorga, Sanctuaires d’Orient* by Schuré, reviews and pamphlets. Then I laid out everything that I would need.

  ‘The first few lessons aren’t difficult at all,’ I said under my breath, to bolster my courage. ‘So let’s start with trigonometric lines: the sine and cosine.’

  But then I started reading the preface, in which Mr Tutuc quoted a passage by Mr Bianu. In this passage the author claimed that, as intelligent as his dull-witted maths teachers may have considered him, he found Spiru Haret’s book on trigonometry quite delightful.

  ‘Trigonometry must be extremely interesting,’ I thought, without much conviction.

  But every time I tried to read the first chapter, I either found that my pencil wasn’t sharp enough, or that my logarithmic tables weren’t easy to grasp. Or that the window squeaked, my legs weren’t in the right position, my shirt collar was uncomfortable, the paper covering the desk was stained, my icon hadn’t been dusted since Thomas Sunday, the ink in the inkwell had dried up, or that I didn’t have enough paper, etc.

  The clock struck half past three.

  ‘Get on with it!’ I reprimanded myself.

  And I drew a circle, divided it into four, and at the end of each diameter I put a capital letter: a, b, c, d. I imagined a thirty-­five degree arc then joined the most extreme point of that arc to the centre of the circle. But I saw that I had produced a forty-five degree arc.

  ‘That’s no good!’ I said, glad to have to draw another circle. ‘This is an eighth of a circle and its sine is 3/√-2, while its cosine is 2/√3.

  I crossed out the circle with the forty-five degree arc and drew another one next to it, with an arc of only thirty-five degrees. But when I was about to dissect it with two perpendicular diameters, the circle that I had crossed out suddenly caught my attention. I screwed up the sheet of paper and threw it out the window. The third circle was much better, and I gave it a commendable thirty-five degree arc. The arc was ab = 35°, and in the centre I put a O, because that’s what always goes in the centre.

  Next I read three pages without stopping. They were very well written and extremely clear, but it was hot in the attic, and I was thinking about how in a month’s time I’d be in the forests of Sibiu.

  By evening I had read twenty-seven pages, with a hundred and one to go. This was because at 4.30 I had taken a cold shower; at 5.30 I had decided I was starving and went downstairs to have something to eat; at 6.30 I started reading a magazine; at 7 o’clock I was thirsty, at 7.15 my pencil broke, at 7.30 the sound of the birds twittering made me feel melancholy, at 8 o’clock I felt persecuted, at 8.15 I lit the lamp, – even though it wasn’t really necessary – at 8.30 I studied my face in the mirror, at 8.40 I made some notes for the psychological aspects of my novel, at 8.50 I decided to have a short rest so as not to overexert myself, and at 8.55 I was called to supper.

  After supper I played the piano for quite a long time, something I hadn’t done for several years. It was quarter past eleven when I went back up to the attic.

  ‘Leave it,’ I thought. ‘I mustn’t make my eyes tired by reading late at night. I’ll set the alarm to wake me at three.’

  Quite content, I began to get undressed. But wasn’t three too early?

  So I decided to get up at four.

  As I went over to the table to turn out the lamp, I changed my mind again and set the alarm for five.

  And so at five o’clock it duly rang. But as I had had bad dreams all night, I just let it ring.

  ‘Leave me in peace, will you’, I said, still half asleep, as if it were the clock’s fault for ringing at five. And I turned over and went back to sleep.

  ‘Hey, you’ve got maths to do! Get out of bed!’

  ‘So what if I’ve got maths to do? Was I made for maths, or was maths made for me?’

  And I went back to sleep. But the morning sun touched my eyelids, and I woke up again. I began to regret sleeping for an hour and a half longer than I needed to, and cursed myself out loud: ‘I’m just an adolescent like all the rest. I’ll never amount to anything. I’m a good for nothing. What a shame I’ve wasted all this time in school. I’ve got as much willpower as an oven-ready chicken.’

  All this was meant to shake me out of my indifference and make me fall in love with trigonometry.

  In vain. Once I had washed and dressed I started reading a chapter in the book by Iorga.

  ‘Am I really foolish enough to waste my energy on maths at six in the morning?’

  In fact it wasn’t six o’clock, but five to seven. I read The History of Roman Literature until eight, when my father brought me some milk and found me feverishly flicking through my logarithmic tables. He looked very pleased.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘It’s difficult, very difficult. I’ve been working at it since four in the morning. I don’t know what to do. I’m awfully tired.’

  My father looked at me fondly.

  ‘Go out into the garden for a while, and then do some more work. I don’t think it’ll be all that bad, the questions won’t be too hard...’

  ‘He said he would ask us some difficult questions...’

  At quarter-past eight I counted how many pages I still had to read, and divided them up among the hours that I had left.

  I did the calculation three times, because it seemed to be important to have an exact answer.

  I drew a circle.

  ‘What if I don’t turn up for the exam?’

  ‘Then I’ll fail.’

  ‘So what if I fail?’

  ‘Everyone will make fun of me.’

  ‘So what if everyone makes fun of me?’

  My mind was made up, so I stopped dividing the circle into four equal parts and marking the extremities of the diameters a, b, c, d.

  ‘What’s it to me if I fail? Don’t I know who I am? Aren’t I still myself?’

  I was right: I was still myself. But that was of no significance to Vanciu.

  ‘Why should I care about Vanciu?’

  That was right too: why should I care about Vanciu?

  ‘It would actually be better if I fail. I’ll have plenty of time to study hard during the summer. I’ll work for four hours a day, so that even Vanciu will be amazed. And then he won’t fail me next year, or in my final year either. But I’ll have to make a serious effort to understand maths once and for all. I’ll study all this summer. It’s a really wise decision on my part: to study over the summer...’

  Filled with delight, I picked up my books and stacked them under the table that was covered with magazines. Then I hurried downstairs and told everyone that I wasn’t going to the exam.

  ‘What? You want me to just scrape through? And then next year I’ll fail again, and again in my final year?’

  I’ll have to make a serious effort to understand maths once and for all. During the summer I’ll have plenty of time. It’s the wisest thing to do...’

  Because after all, this year I’m going to fail, just like in all the other years.

  It was only to be expected. In fact I’d predicted it would happen as long ago as last winter, although I had never told anyone.

  Prize-giving

  This morning, rows of benches were set out in the schoolyard, along with a lectern, a few chairs and a table on which were piled the books that would be presented to the prize-winners. The boys, dressed for the occasion, stood around in groups, while the girls were more serious and impatient, their faces glowing. One or two people sidled up to the table to steal a surreptitious glance at the books, which had the prize-winners’ names written on the covers. Then they went back to the others, and the news spread rapidly along the benches. One of the winners blushed, pretending not to believe it.

  ‘Do
n’t take any notice... he’s lying!’ Although he actually thought he had won first prize..

  The boys in their final year were wearing straw hats, and obviously felt obliged to laugh and mock. With an air of condescension they used the informal form of ‘you’ when speaking to the younger boys. Then, along with everyone else, they turned their attention to the preparations going on at the lectern, the table with all the books, and made comments about the masters’ faces. ‘The Dragon,’ the hairy school servant, bowed his head so he could hear the Headmaster’s orders. A secretary brought a sheet of paper on which the prize-winners’ names were written in alphabetical order. One or two parents came and sat nervously in the front row, waving and smiling to the masters.

  The pupils from the Remove and Fifth Form laughed loudly at all the jokes made by the Sixth-Formers, secretly hoping to become part of their cliques. They gathered round them, hanging on their every word. When the older boys deigned to speak to them, they were thrilled. Some were lucky enough to be asked their opinion, while others were even allowed to join in the conversation. But these were the privileged few. This friendship with ‘the big boys’ was undoubtedly due to many ‘favours’ provided in the school tuck shop, at the tavern on the corner or by running errands for them. Others had established similar relationships by having secret card games late into the night, often after midnight.

  At ten thirty the ‘festivities’ began. Standing at the lectern, the Headmaster gave a speech. He made special mention of ‘the school’s activities, the percentage of pupils who had passed their exams, and those who had won prizes,’ and concluded with exhortations to excel.

  ‘...at our lycée, ladies and gentlemen, the pupil’s work, his diligence, his intelligence and perseverance – or, put another way – the diligent and intelligent pupil who has not wasted his time, who has made full use of the enlightenment that is so generously provided by our school, the diligence of this pupil, of which there are many in this school, has been rewarded. Therefore we can say, ladies and gentlemen, that after this, the seventh year of our school’s existence, after many achievements and rewards...’

  The boys sitting on the benches at the back laughed and clapped. Every now and then, masters would turn round and glare at them. When the Headmaster had sat down, the Director of Music began looking for the boys who played in the ensemble. He could only find nine.

  ‘Mr Boloveanu?’ said the Headmaster, looking at him impatiently.

  The Director of Music was beside himself.

  ‘Hurry up, gentlemen, for goodness sake! Where’s the bass drum? How many alto trumpeters are there?’

  I was one of the alto trumpeters. But after every rehearsal my lips were swollen and I had trouble breathing. It was this that had dissuaded me from going to rehearsals for the past two months. I hid under the bench so he couldn’t see me.

  The Director of Music – a corpulent visionary – took up his baton and began. ‘The March’ was one of his numerous compositions. But without enough trombonists, and with a feeble drummer, the fanfare was uninspiring. The melody was inaudible in places, drowned out by the alto trumpets. To the Headmaster’s vexation, the finales were almost always off-key. Eventually the Director of Music flew into a rage. When the symbol clashed a half-tone flat, he went over to the player and hit him with his baton.

  ‘I shall report you to the Headmaster!’

  Then he turned to the musicians.

  ‘Why don’t you ever come to rehearsals?... Forte over there, forte!’

  The applause, which went on for far too long, made the Headmaster and the Director of Music blush.

  ‘Play your Medley’, suggested the Headmaster, imperiously.

  The boys had been waiting for this great revelation with bated breath: the maestro’s latest composition.

  ‘Bravo! Bravo!...’

  But a glance from the podium silenced them.

  The parents grew restless. The prize-winners were bathed in perspiration.

  ‘Ssh! On the count of four, you begin. One, two...’

  ‘The National Medley’ started with a doinā7. But the soloist, a tall, dark-haired, hollow-cheeked boy, was exhausted. When he had to hold a note for more than three beats, he puffed out his cheeks, went red in the face and closed his eyes. The tone flattened, and became a squeaking sound.

  ‘Firănescu! Blow harder, lad!’ the Director begged, gripping the baton.

  A group of pupils who were sitting behind the ensemble took up the cry: ‘Go for it, Firănescu!...’

  When the doinā ended and the sârba8 began, the soloist coughed and took a deep breath. The members of the ensemble smiled at the audience, the Director of Music smiled at the ensemble, and the audience tapped their feet in time with the music.

  At the back, the elite pupils produced an accompaniment of their own, banging their fists on the desks. Parents turned to see what was going on. Then in the middle of the sârba the Headmaster stood up and roared: ‘You at the back! I’ll have you all thrown out...’

  The amateur musicians fell silent, soon followed by the ensemble themselves, who were showered with applause. There was a five minute break, and then the prize-giving began. A secretary who spoke with a lisp called out the names: ‘Brādescu, Mihail, Upper Sixth Science Class, first prize with honours.’

  The ensemble played a triumphal arpeggio: ‘Do-mi-sol-do. Do-sol-mi-dooo...Do-mi-sol-do...’

  ‘That’ll do. Vasilica, Dumitru, Upper Sixth Science Class, second prize.’

  ‘Bravo! Bravo, Dumitru!’

  Vasilica Dumitru, a lanky lad with a stoop, droopy ears, a freckled face pockmarked by smallpox scars, with a red nose and narrow forehead, came up timidly to the prize-giving table, as befits a washwoman’s son. The Director gave him an insipid smile, shook his hand then frowned and smoothed his hair. Other lucky, diligent pupils were then called up in turn. Each of them was given an armful of books, or sometimes only one, and then, blushing, they stumbled away, not daring to go back to their seats. They talked amongst themselves, comparing prizes, and from deep down inside us, jealously rose like red-hot steam. All the other pupils, an anonymous crowd of mediocrities who had just scraped through or had had to retake – no one who was repeating a year had come to the ceremony – greeted their successful classmates with disingenuous applause.

  ‘Bravo, Mandea!’

  ‘Live long and prosper!’

  ‘Bravo, Sandu!’

  They shook hands with Alexandru Alexandrescu, all the while thinking that, by rights, they too could have got a prize. Some looked gloomy, while others put on a show of excitement as they applauded their fellow pupils.

  Although I was eager to hear everything that was said, I was afraid the others might find out what I was feeling deep down inside. I did my best to appear calm, so no one could accuse me of being jealous of a few dull-witted prize-winners. But as they gathered round me, I felt my resolve weaken. It wouldn’t be long before I gave voice to my hatred. I hated these uncultured, characterless adolescents with broad foreheads who always did their homework, went to the cinema and masturbated every night. I hated their bodies whether they were puny or muscular, pale or swarthy, their rosy or pasty faces, their sunken, dark-ringed eyes. All my work, my torments and my results went unappreciated. Simply because I couldn’t understand maths or speak German. My opinion was coloured by vehement feelings of injustice. All that was really necessary to me were the things I liked. What was I supposed to do with maths and natural science?

  ‘I learn what I want to learn, do you hear me. We’re all a bunch of idiots...’

  And my conversation with a classmate who had won a prize came to an abrupt, savage end: ‘Idiots, do you hear me?’

  I was probably shouting, because people turned to look and my classmate moved away, rather intimidated.

  Eventually I calmed down, by thinking about my books and manuscripts as well as
this herd of adolescents. I had been exaggerating as usual, in order to console myself.

  Dinu and I looked at the result sheets that had been pasted onto a window. Only four people from our class had failed maths: Dinu, Chioreanu, Bonaş and myself. Dinu was my friend. The other two were the worst in the class. This should have humiliated me. In the past, I had at least kept company with a better quality of failures...

  I walked home with Dinu, laughing and joking.

  As I walked into the dining room, I asked everyone: ‘Do you know how many people in my class failed maths? Sixteen.’

  Everyone was astonished. They looked at me sympathetically and tried to console me. Although I pretended to be upset, I was actually filled with joy that Papa didn’t lecture me and Mama didn’t stop my pocket money for a week. They asked me all about the prize-giving, about the masters, my friends, classmates, the people I knew and didn’t know.

  I had to pretend to be upset until evening.

  Or perhaps I really was upset...

  * * *

  7d0inā: an elegiac song typical of Romania, usually combining folk poetry and music.

  8sârba: a lively Romanian folk dance.

  The Summer Holidays

  It’s hot, and I can read whatever I like. I haven’t given any thought to the retake. I’ll worry about maths at the end of August, and then I’ll do some work. I’m free, the master of my own time. I’ve been wondering if I shouldn’t just leave, run away forever. It’s a thought that keeps coming back insistently every time I manage to thrust it aside. My nights are tormented by it. It would be wonderful to run away... but maybe I just don’t have the courage. I keep thinking of all the obstacles that I wouldn’t know how to overcome. I don’t understand anything about passports. If I could just get hold of one, it would be easy for me to work it out.

  All my friends tell me that they’ve wanted to run away as well. But in my case, running away isn’t just a passing desire for adventure, or a childish capitulation to the drudgery of school. I have to run away because of an inner necessity that I don’t understand, but which has seized control of my will. Otherwise I feel that it will tear my soul apart, that I’ll suffocate. I feel the need to live the way I want, to struggle.